The First Wife

by Diana Diamond

  Andrews’s voice was soft but still stern. “That horse has never bolted before. There was nothing out there to spook him.”

  “Maybe it was something she did,” Cassie suggested. “She must have kicked him or something.”

  Bill growled, “She certainly didn’t put that burr under his saddle. Someone else had to have done that.”

  “Maybe she brushed against a sticker bush,” Craig said.

  “We were out in the open when the horse bolted,” his father answered.

  “It could have been caught in the saddle from a long time ago,” Cassie tried.

  “Then how come the horse didn’t act up as soon as he was saddled?”

  Jane wanted to hear how the investigation played out, but she didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping. The conversation stopped when she entered the room.

  Bill stood to hold her chair. “How are you feeling? Everything okay?”

  “I feel fine,” Jane answered, even though she ached as if a truck had hit her. “Just a couple of bruises.”

  “See,” Craig said, “she didn’t even get hurt.” Jane nodded pleasantly even though she felt an urge to throw a punch. There was genuine joy in the thought of seeing him with his nose broken. The children used Jane’s arrival as their cue to leave. She was relieved that Bill didn’t insist they stay at the table.

  “Did I hear you say that there was something under my saddle?” Jane asked as if the question had no particular significance.

  “A burr,” he said. “One of those stickers that grows on bushes. That’s what made your horse jump. He’s a very gentle animal, not very exciting to ride but steady and predictable. I couldn’t understand why he would have tried to throw you like that.”

  “How did it get there?” she asked politely as she added dressing to her salad.

  He shrugged and explained that there were any number of possibilities. The groom might have missed it after the horse’s last outing. It could have caught on the saddle when someone laid the saddle on the ground. Or the horse might have brushed against a bush while he was tied up during their breakfast. Jane accepted all the possibilities even though she knew he didn’t believe any of them. He thought one of his children had put it under her saddle, and he had confronted them with his suspicions. Naturally, they denied it.

  Jane had no desire to wring confessions out of Cassie and Craig. But she wanted Bill to face the implications of what he suspected. His children were determined to drive her off.

  “I want to apologize for their behavior today,” Bill said. “But I hope you don’t think that it is all their fault. I’m just as guilty. I haven’t been a very good father.”

  “It may not have anything to do with you,” Jane answered. “I think it’s me. They don’t want me around.”

  “That’s not true. They don’t even know you yet,” he said.

  “Bill, it’s nothing personal. They don’t hate me. They just don’t like anyone who might, in some way, try to take their mother’s place.” She let the idea sink in and then said, “Maybe I ought to leave.”

  He seemed horrified. “No, please. I’m sorry about what happened today. It will get better.”

  “I might not make it through the night,” she told him. “Your kids don’t take prisoners.” Then she threw up her hands hopelessly. “They don’t want me, Bill. They don’t want anyone playing the role of your wife.”

  “I want you,” he said. He was dumbstruck by the admission he had just made. Jane looked at him wide-eyed, as amazed as he seemed to be.

  “I need you,” he added.

  “Why?” she whispered. “You have everything.”

  He shook his head slowly. “I have nothing. Please! Give it another day.”

  She couldn’t believe that she was suddenly feeling sorry for a billionaire, the most important man in global communications. But that wasn’t who was sitting across the table from her. This William Andrews seemed hollow, a frail shell about to collapse under its own weight. The global dynamo was out of energy.

  They sat looking at each other, William weary and Jane confused. “Okay,” she agreed with a quick smile. “But no more horses.”

  He nodded. “No more horses.”

  They were by themselves for the rest of the day. He made no effort to involve her with the children, and even when they crossed paths with one of them, he kept his attention fixed on her. He didn’t seem to care where Cassie and Craig decided to eat or even if they ate at all. Instead, the two of them took over the kitchen and cut vegetables for an elaborate salad. Jane experimented with the dressing, and he made a great show of selecting the wine. Then they carried their food out to a deck with a market-umbrella-shaded glass-top table and canvas porch chairs. The sun began to set while they enjoyed their dinner, and they were both stunned by the color it cast across the lawns and the hayfields.

  “Is this where you plan to live when you retire?” she asked.

  “Retire?” Andrews had to smile. He hardly ever used the word.

  Jane caught his meaning. “Well, after you own everything on earth and there’s nothing left to buy.”

  “Actually, I’m thinking of selling the place. I had it on the market two years ago, but the kids wailed and carried on so much that I changed my mind.”

  “Why?” She gestured out to the pastoral splendor that was taking on more color with each passing second.

  “I’m not a farmer and, as I said earlier, I’m not into horses.” His lips pursed for a second, and he added, “Besides, not all the memories are happy ones.”

  She could understand. This was Kay’s house. It had been her architect and her decorators. She had trained some of the horses. It must have been impossible for him to look around without seeing Kay everywhere. And that had to tear at his heart. If anyone was going to take her place, she would be better off living far away from Kay’s many ghosts.

  She decided on bed early, using her morning ordeal as an implicit excuse. Her back ached and her arms felt like lead. He was properly concerned and suggested that he take her to a hospital, but Jane insisted that a couple of painkillers and a good night’s sleep would do the trick. She left him in the living room opening another bottle of wine.

  Jane woke up early in the morning, truly uncomfortable from the cuts and bruises on her knees and elbows, and with a genuine backache. She dressed quietly and slipped down to the kitchen, where she made a pot of coffee. Then she carried a steaming mug outside so that she could watch the sunrise. She was surprised to find Cassie, still in her pajamas, sitting on the steps to one of the porches, said “Good morning” and got a “hi” in response. That was all the encouragement she needed to sit down next to the girl.

  They watched silently as the eastern horizon colored to a blue gray. “Ahh,” Jane allowed when the sun, like a cherry, popped into view. A minute later she asked, “Don’t you wonder why it’s so big and bright at sunset, and so frail in the morning?”

  “Are you sleeping with my father?” Cassie asked, cutting to a question that was more important to her.

  “Of course not!” Jane said instantly, trying to sound indignant.

  Cassie showed no reaction. She kept looking at the sunrise, squinting into what was becoming a golden glow. Jane quickly regretted her outraged tone. It was a fair question from a young woman Cassie’s age. Maybe she even had a right to know.

  “Are you going to?” That was a tougher question.

  “Your father and I have known each other only a few days, Cassie. We haven’t talked about it.” That was true, as it stood, but then she went further. “I haven’t even thought about it.” That wasn’t true at all. But she hadn’t thought about it with any relish. It was more in terms of how she was going to handle the situation when it came up.

  “You shouldn’t,” Cassie said in a tone that offered advice rather giving an order.

  “I’d never do anything to hurt you and your brother,” Jane said, thinking that was the point the girl was trying to make. “I’d never try
to take your mother’s place.”

  “Is that what my father wants you to do?”

  “Of course not! Your father loved your mother. He still loves her. He talks about her all the time. No one will ever take her place.”

  The girl sneered and turned her head to one side. “Then why wasn’t he ever with her? Why were they always fighting?”

  “That’s not true,” Jane insisted. Then she realized that she had no way of knowing whether it was true or not. “They were both very busy people,” she tried less positively. “There were demands on their time that kept them apart. And even people who love each other sometimes have differences. But that’s not fighting.”

  Cassie shrugged and stared down at her bare toes. Her expression said that the conversation was over. Finally she stood, turned, and started up the steps past Jane. Jane reached up and caught her hand. “Cassie, please put your mind at ease. I’m not trying to take anyone’s place.”

  Cassie looked down at her. “I hope not,” she said.

  13

  They helicoptered to New York on Sunday afternoon, setting down at La Guardia, where the company jet was waiting to whisk William off to Europe. Jane transferred to a limo and was driven back to her apartment in Connecticut. The long drive gave her plenty of time to rerun the highlights of her weekend.

  Andrews had displayed a romantic interest in her but also a very practical one. She inferred the romantic interest from the flattering things he said to her and the way he took her hand when they were alone. The practical one was much less subtle. He needed someone to take Kay Parker’s place, oversee his household, and raise his children. She reran her trip back home in the helicopter, trying to decide which was more important to him.

  He began as they lifted off by thanking her for enduring the disappointing weekend. He had hoped that a happy family setting might show another side of him. Now he hoped that the disaster with his children didn’t make him look like an overindulgent fool. “They’re usually better than you saw,” he said. “By no means angels! They can be difficult and self-centered, like all adolescents. But they were absolutely awful this weekend. You saw them at their very worst.”

  He went on to explain some of the fun things they did together. He and Cassie often worked side by side in the kitchen, putting together gourmet meals. And he frequently was able to accompany her to the horse shows she competed in. He and his son had assembled a fantastic radio-controlled airplane that they were going to fly together, and he had usually been one of the better-behaved parents at Little League games.

  But as he elaborated, he startled himself with the realization of how infrequently he had joined his children. There had been only one occasion when he and Cassie had cooked together, and that was nearly a year ago. Worse, she had given up competitive riding two years ago. Craig had been out of Little League for the past two seasons, and the plane was still awaiting the new engine that he had promised to bring home. In the end, all he could say in his own defense was how quickly the time had passed. “I can do better,” he promised himself. “I have to do better.”

  She had cut him some slack, repeating that his children’s conduct was due to the arrival of another woman on their mother’s turf. She believed he intended to make a greater effort and was certain that he was a wonderful father.

  Then he had talked about her. She was easy to talk to, he said, and fun to be with. He laughed over their foibles in the kitchen when they had tried to prepare dinner. On a more serious note, he admired the way she had downplayed her fall from the horse. Jane decided that he had clearly been more emotional when talking about the needs of his family and that his primary interest in her was as a patch for the gaping hole Kay’s death had left in his life.

  That kind of relationship, Jane knew, just wouldn’t work. First of all, there was no way she could ever replace his first wife. She didn’t want to, his kids didn’t want her to, and even if everyone had loved the idea, she simply wasn’t up to the task. Kay had been sensational. Jane was about average. Second, she had just come out of similar relationship in which she had sacrificed her independence to someone else’s agenda. Art had succeeded at nothing, yet he still managed to make her feel insignificant. How much more lost would she be in Bill’s giant shadow?

  He had expressed his affection and admiration. But he had never mentioned that he loved her. Nor did the word come instantly to her. She admired William Andrews, liked his style, and basked in his attention. But she hadn’t even asked herself if she loved him, probably because she was afraid of the answer.

  She decided that she should break off the relationship. She could argue truthfully that she just wasn’t ready to get serious with anyone. She was still too close to a relationship in which her commitment had been ridiculed. Or she could engage in a bit of a fib and claim that she was still in love with Art. There had to be some way of putting it without adding to the pain of loss that he already felt. Or maybe the relationship would die a natural death. If she made herself less available and stalled for time, Andrews might well get caught up in some global takeover that fulfilled all his emotional needs. By the time he got back to thinking about his personal life, someone else might be on the scene.

  Moments later she decided that she should probably stay involved with him. She didn’t like the idea of someone else on the scene. The lineup of women—socialites, business tycoons, actresses, models— who would gladly throw themselves at William Andrews probably reached halfway to the moon. Why should she be so damn honest with her feelings? He was honest, gentlemanly, and lavishly attentive. She might well learn to love him.

  Back and forth she went as the car plodded up the Merritt Parkway in Connecticut. At Greenwich she decided to see just where his interest would take them. By Stamford she had decided on an unambiguous no. In Fairfield she thought it best to let time take its course. But when she stepped out of the limo at the door of her apartment building, she was back to saying yes. As she unpacked, Jane realized that she was no closer to deciding how she should react to his attentions than she was before the weekend.

  But she was certain of one thing. Kay Parker’s murder was the fulcrum of Bill’s life. If she ever hoped to understand him, she would have to understand exactly what had happened that so badly afflicted him. She would get on the Internet and connect with all the newspapers that would have covered the violent death of Kay Parker. And their stories would give her leads into police investigations, coroner’s reports, and all the official records that would accompany a murder. She was going to learn about Andrews before and after, assess the damage, and then decide if there was any chance of recovery.

  The next morning she sought out Jack Dollinger. He was flattered that she was tapping on the door of his cubicle, rather than he looking in on her, and bounded to his feet in the hope of being helpful. “What can I do for you?” he began.

  She sat slowly in his side chair, her manner indicating that she needed his confidence. He settled behind his desk. “Something wrong?” he whispered.

  “No, I don’t think so. There’s just something you said the other day that I’d like to clarify.”

  “Sure …” He was eager to get into a discussion of something that he had said.

  Jane leaned closer to his desk. “We were talking about William Andrews and the death of his first wife. You said something about unanswered questions, and I just want to hear what was unanswered.”

  “Well, the biggest unanswered question was ‘who done it?’ The police never charged anyone. Hell, they never found anyone they could even think of charging.”

  “You were with the Post at the time?”

  He nodded. “Assistant news editor. Really news editor because my boss was never there.” He raised his hand to his mouth and mimicked a man tossing down a shot of hard liquor.

  “What do you remember about it? I suppose it was very sensational.”

  “At the Post?” He laughed. “The other papers thought we were committing murders just so that we c
ould be first on the scene. If it wasn’t a sensation, we certainly would have made it into one.”

  “So what can you tell me about it?”

  “Oh God! Eight years ago. Let me think.” He pulled open a drawer to use as a footrest and then leaned back in his swivel chair. “Well, first of all, it was Kay Parker’s story. Andrews was a very visible person, starting to build his fortune in radio and television networks and wireless telephones. But he hadn’t reached star quality yet. Kay, on the other hand, was America’s dream girl. You didn’t have to caption her photos. Everyone knew who she was. Sort of like Grace Kelly.”

  Jane frowned. “Grace Kelly?”

  He laughed. “My God, how young are you that you don’t remember Grace Kelly? She was in the movies. Blond, beautiful, and very cultured. Sort of an ice maiden in her public life. Everyone in America was wondering which of the leading men she was going to marry, when all of a sudden she announced her engagement to the prince of Monaco. An honest-to-God prince, soon to be king of a country. Yet all of America was up in arms. The nerve of that oily European to deflower America’s virgin queen. She became the queen of the country, but no one thought of her as Rainier’s wife. The poor bastard never was thought of as a king. He was always that Italian earl or whatever that Grace Kelly married.”

  Jane smiled. “Like Jackie Kennedy.”

  He nodded eagerly. “Right. Onassis was a billionaire and an international celebrity, but in the United States he became the damn Greek who seduced Jackie Kennedy.”

  “So she was the story,” Jane said to get him back on track.

  “Yeah, we dredged up all the old photos of her. Queen of the Cotillion, benefactor of hungry children, patron of the arts. We had shots that showed cleavage, thigh, and midsection that we always ran next to the photo of her covered body being loaded into a hearse. We really milked it! Circulation was up twenty-five percent all week.”

  “But there was no killer,” Jane reminded him. “How did you keep the story current?”

  “Rumors,” Dollinger said. Then he chuckled. “We were shameless. We found a new suspect every afternoon over lunch, just in time for the evening edition. First she had a lover, a mystery man who had vowed that if he couldn’t have Kay, no one would have her. Then Andrews had a lover, a producer for his New York television station. That gave us two days’ headlines. First he had killed his wife so that he could enjoy the assets of his mistress. Then the next day, the mistress had shot Kay Parker so that she could marry William Andrews.”